Pleasures of Australia
by TheFellowshipOfBrokenMen
Summary: The culmination of several sick minds oozing a discordance of thoughts into a text file. Bear witness to the madness that emerged.


There was once a young, tender hedgehog who preferred to stay anonymous. He didn't like tennis much but he very much liked the professional players, like Djokovic. He had a huge crush on Djokovic, which was in fact far closer to an unconditional and insatiable lust. The desire for the 30 year old long faced Serbian was stronger than the nuclear force holding the atoms of his very being together. He needs him!

So the plan started there, Operation Rape the Tennis Man was a-go. Despite his own moral objections to the name of the operation he was absolutely convinced it accurately conveyed his intentions. After all, he could not object to the importance of fulfilling his destiny. His own words echoed within his being: "I need him" and a flood of semen swamped his trouser leg. He blushed, knowing that the next time he opens his creamy passage it will be inside his one true love, Djokovic. The name to him is like the whispers of sin emanating from a nunnery that is a whore house on the side. Wrong, but infinitely arousing.

This hedgehog is me, and I have a plan: Step one, find him. Step two, enter him. Step three, be one with him. Step four, shake the earth with the phattest nut the world has ever seen, with the expulsion of a magnitude 11 nut. Tearing holes in the space time continuum is just the beginning of what the nut will be capable of. If any human being lives to see the aftermath of my penile armageddon, they will understand the significance of that day. The end of time is the day I expel the copious reserve of my testicles within the moist confines of Djokovic's perky buttocks. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, step one lies yet ahead.

Once I had dedicated my life to achieving a true personal bliss, I kidnapped Djokovic's manager within months of hatching my plan. I forced him to tell me where the long legged, slender figure of perfection was staying for the Australian open. After many hours of horrific torture the mangled, syringe riddled and hardly conscious wreck of what was once the manager finally caved. The Intercontinental Melbourne, The Rialto. He's there, 495 Collins Street, Melbourne, VC 3000 AU, he's really there. the tight assed fucknugget is there, my member trembles with inhuman locomotion. I'm ready for him, I hope he's ready for me, I haven't cum in months in preparation for this day. I'm cumming for you.

Step two is now priority. My first obstacle is the attendant at the front desk, as I don't have a room here. I must therefore sneak past anyone who would ask any pressing questions and discover the room number of my future boi toy. I stupidly did not think to ask such a question while ramming my fist with vehemence up the managers now loose anus. Well never mind that, I need to find the room number and fast, as I can hardly contain my erection any longer. It throbs with anticipation. Upon seeing a thin and frail looking bellboy I move in, and catch his attention with the line,

"Hello there, it appears I have lost my luggage would you be a dear and help me find it?" The bellboy nods politely and begins to amble uncertainly in the direction of the main desk, presumably to grab a co-worker. I quickly seize his arm and whisper directly into his ear canal,

"Don't move. I'm not afraid pop a nigga in the ass with my body glock, I want information." The words spill from his ear into the thin air of the empty hallway, and the boy shakes with fear, afraid to make a sound.

"Do you know where he is?"

The boy whimpers "He?"

"Djokovic."

He then points a pale, trembling finger to the elevator and whispers "Floor 13, the honeymoon suite." I lick his ear and wheeze, almost inaudibly, the word "Perfect" while trying to hold back my hip centered gyrations. But none can hold back a godly force such as that. I crush the bellboy against the nearest wall with my pelvis as adrenaline floods my body. I mercilessly pound the life out of his skeletal form with Herculean might until my cravings reside and I move on, up to floor 13.

I take the elevator to the top floor. Upon finding the room I seek, I break the lock with one strike of my already fully erect dude piston. It is time for the execution of step two, enter Djokovic. With an animalistic ferocity I enter the room and pin what I thought was my loved one to the wall just past the doorway. Upon regaining my senses I realize I am molesting the maid. I continue, and press for more information which could possibly bring me closer to quenching my thirst for Djokovic's Bangin' Black Barack Obama Destroyer. The maid screams at the assault, though she had not seen my face yet, and the plan has not been foiled; No witnesses. I look around for my one and only. I hear the shower turn on. My anus clenches with the cosmic power of universal creation, and my already firm anal poker is now at an all time high. He's so close. I can smell him, the scent is just like the one of his used towel that I bought off ebay . With one thrust of my Almighty Shit Digger I impale the maid and lunge in the direction of the bathroom, pogoing on my deformed eggplant of a penis. She goes a boing-a-boing in pain. The veins of my schlong pump adrenaline, semen and natural, sustainable and environmentally friendly energy. The maid squeals like a female hedgehog from my long lost tribe, triggering a series of painful flashbacks which to this day I have not learned to suppress..

Carefully prying the door open, I witness the magnificent figure of the former number 1 singles player radiate a healthy glow, as if he had never consumed gluten in his life. His flawless diet lights an even stronger flame of desire in my loins. With the maid still attached to my destroyer of worlds, I use ventriloquism to project my voice to the maid and say "Gah. Djokobitch!". Djokovic, my Djokovic, says something in Serbian like a Serbian. With the autistic strength of 10 men I lift the bathtub and place myself beneath, allowing my member to stick through the drain. The tentacle-like entity between my legs now assumes control and begins to try and plant itself within Djokovic. Djokovic, like a good tennis player, whips out his tennis racket and does battle with my Lovecraftian monstrosity. Normally, I would question where he got the tennis racket in the shower but since he is a good Serbian, he is guaranteed to have weapon on him at all times, in the event of K*rdish invasion. Djokovic begins beating his chest like a Balkan warrior gorilla, that was a veteran of each of the Yugoslavian wars. Djokovic begins screaming Gorillic Serbian and grabs my tentacle head with the force of a Serbian accordion player playing at 310 bpm.

I tremble in fear. Is this Djokovic's true form? He has never shown this majesty during his tennis matches - perhaps he was containing the beast within. I attempt to lick my lips resulting in a torrential flood of saliva beneath the bath, as my shoulders quake in a grand hysteria. Übermensch Djokovic glares at me through the bathtub like Serbian hunter tracking Kebab prey. He readies racket and tennis ball like bow and arrow, but my urethral gape is ready. He backhands the ball with his forehead, his actual head, dropping the racket in the process. Djokovic smiles. This was all according to his plan. He wasn't using the tennis racket during his singles. He was using his forehead. Though the public is not aware, Djokovic is able to hit the ball so fast that it looks like he uses his racket instead. The footage captured by cameras during his games is indistinguishable from if he was in fact using the racket, as he is able to contort his body in sync with the shutter speed of the camera and mask it from the naked eye. Truly he is the apex of human evolution.

As the ball approaches the event horizon of my urethral black hole, it slowly fades into the void and vanishes. Mere moments later the hole collapses due to hawking radiation into a single one dimensional point, causing the remaining penile tissue to form an infinitely sharp stabbing instrument. I'm thrown aback by the empyrean power of my flesh abyss. Bareback Joke-ovic is not. He is a battle-hardened tennis Serbian after all. However, Jock-ovic notices that he only had one tennis ball. Out of desperation he grabs the tennis racket from the floor and rams it down his throat, racket head first. Confused as to why he did that since that would seemingly solve nothing, I stare at him as he proceeds to choke. That's when it hits me, Serbians aren't people (neither are the K*rds) - they gain strength from pain. So as Loco-ovic chokes on the head of the tennis racket, his muscle mass increases tenfold. Kosovic pulls out a tennis ball machine. Then he pulls out the tennis balls from the machine to serve them at me with his now muscular Orthodox forehead. Still under the bathtub, I flip the tub using my comprehensive genital strength to do an ollie and land myself on my back, again. Jenkem-vic stares at the bathtub. I decide instead to roll over to the side, and retrieve my undependably sized and painfully elongated shoggoth from the drain, in a motion akin to rolling up a hose. I finally face the ten-tosterone pulsing utensil of K*rd konsumption. The allocation of blood supply to his forehead during the swing made him weak, and susceptible to pounding. My assegai spear hardens once again and unravels from the hose position it was in prior. It is time for the battle of wits.

The racket-shaped-necked Serbian stares at me like a surprisingly vascular dil(d)ophosaurus. Jan III Sobieski-vic arches his neck towards the heavens and screeches with the cries of T*rks during the collapse of the economic output of the Ottoman Empire during the first world war. Novislav Djakovic opens his mind to challenge me in the astral plane. Is he inviting me to fight against him in 4D chess? Dimensions previously unknown to me unravel before my eyes. I am dragged by the balls into the astral dimension and I meet the cosmic form of Jack Off-vic. He floats towards me as if we were in the Adriatic Sea. I guess I am currently in step two now as I have technically "entered" him. Nonetheless, I accepted his challenge by sending a telepathic message. Cringe-ovic nods in response. His celestial form emits resplendently with the brightness of a dying white star or a really damn good flashlight. The Novaks of the past, present and future all appear as one entity before me. It appears as one yet it is not one. But it is. Or is it? Who knows. I am not a mathematician so dealing with the fourth dimension is more than I am capable of. The shock of trying to understand the complexity and intricacy of my current situation and of this realm has landed me back into the third dimension. Kalishnikov-ic laughs in 4D which upsets me. The laugh echoes through the past, present and future which annoys me further.

Djokes on him. Before I landed back to the 3D realm, I secretly moved my knight from 8D5E to 1E9Q which allowed me to take his queen and then checkmate his king that was in 1D7U. Despite not being a mathematician, I am adept at hypercube astral 4D chess as I spent my mortal days meditating in the mountains of Tibet in order to discover the best move. My calculations led me to discover the perfect one-turn play, which is also the only possible move. Little does Judeo-vic know but to allow this play I, allocated the uranium and aluminium deposits to the hypercube board's weapon development platform which allowed me to build nuclear weapons while he was too busy trying to increase his military production. Not many people know this but when playing hypercube astral 4D chess, you can use this one exploit to beat your opponent very easily. Be aware that this does not work in hypercube astral 4D chess version 1.2.4 as this was patched. However due to Djokovic's old age, we are playing an older version. Unrest has spread in Djokovic's chess pieces due to waning food supply, pointless deaths during the war and suicide epidemics among males. The Djokovician Empire's populace are staging mass starvation revolts as a form of protest to Djokovician aristocratic rule. It was inevitable that an uprising was soon to happen as the Djokovic dynasty was easily dethroned and massacred.

Djokovic noticing that his Tsar is now dead, and still holding the (correctly) firm belief that communism does not work, decides to rage quit from hypercube astral 4D chess to return to the third dimension. I'm now face to face with the brick headed Serbian. We lock eyes and we each stare intently. My singular not-quite-twin tower rapidly grows to the point that I thought it may burst. The room's atmosphere shifted, and the air felt heavy with spirits onlooking, as if jealous of my progress. It was time for the penultimate stage of my plan, Stage 3, become one with him. Organ Donor-vic, seeing a slight twitch in my hand leaps across the bathroom and grabs both my arms, pinning me to the floor with the grip of a corn hucker in the 1940's. The proximity of Donkovic, and his raw manly aroma gives me a pleasure that not any man could, only him. My one true love. As he breathes in Serbian over me I feel his structurally sound monument of a physique brush a large portion of my back.

"You may think you are safe from back penis. It's don't."

Startled by the broken gorillic English inflection of Djinn-o-vic and his angelic elocution, I pause, debating whether I should inquire further about his intended meaning.

I mutter, uncertainly.

"What?"

Without hesitation, Drudge-o-vic repeats, "It's don't", as he spins me over like a well done kebab and grabs my vacuum tight anus, tearing it open with his mitts of destruction. Is he full on trying to fuck me? This was not part of my plan, I aint gay, and now I've lost my erection.. Deutschovic is my woman; women receive and men dispense.

As I feel his woman maker slightly touch my rim, I clench with the force of a thousand black stars.

"I'm no ones bitch"

At the thought of regaining the power of being the man in the relationship, I develop an even fiercer erection, which pushes into the ground and propels me upwards. This prompts me to execute a mid-air spindash and reverse the hold Djank-a-bitch held on me. I finally prepare for the execution of the late Stage 3, as I create a fissure between his butcheeks in order to submerge my pulsating drill bit in the warm juices of his digestive tract. By doing so I tear down his psychic defense barriers like the Syrians tore down the statue of Bashar al-Assad, and I subsequently achieve nirvana by entering his memories.

Once more in the dimension of Dankovic, I look back at the physical realm to see my body revolving in a drill like fashion around the entrance to his cavernous interior. Slowly absorbing his emotions and memories, I melt at the sensation of our unity. The experience is of perfection, as if I am the needle, and he is the Russian injecting krokodil. I view the landscape of Domination-vic's mind, looking to find the pleasure centre, and upon locating it, I turn the dial up to 11 out of a possible 5. The euphoria that follows sends waves of mind force that press against the limits of Djalapeño-vic's resistance, forcing me out lest his inner library of past tennis matches collapse.

Only step four lies ahead now, and for that I must return to the land of merciless copulation. Regaining the ability of conscious thought, I lock eyes with my new woman, who mutters,

"I will not succumb to hedge twice back penis of the mind."

Ignoring this incomprehensible yet arousing verbal spillage, I thrust one final time.

The prophecised seism of testicular expulsion is unleashed, and the water jet cutter resembling stream pierces the innards of Django-vic. However, the stream does not stop there, it cuts through the lower twelve floors of the hotel and continues to erode layers upon layers of dirt and rock, boring into the continent of Australia.

I have executed the entirety of my 4 step plan. I have achieved an unmatched sense of euphoria. I have come a long way. However, my final actions in the domination of Lying-almost-dead-ovic had unforeseeable consequences; The magnitude of my eruption has caused a fissure in the Earth's crust, which now spews magma, threatening to harm the inhabitants of Australia, and more importantly, my Djokovic. I must amend this situation, after all I care for the well-being of more than any other hedge-being. But how do I plug the hole? The rift I left is about as large as a whale on anabolics.

I begin to mutter to myself, desperately searching for a solution, and Disease-o-vic whimpers with his final trace of ten-tosterone strength.

"Use an body plug… Maybe forehead stick hole."

This unintelligible tongue lashing brings about a perplexed expression to my face, to which he reacts:

"Forehead close of flame hole."

Are these truly his final wishes? If so I cannot refuse, we cannot be together forever even after our intimate mind exchanges. Eager to fulfill the final wishes of Djokovic my man antenna broadcasts an aura of superiority as I impale his still swollen body non-erotically for the first time, and launch us into the gaping void of Australia. As predicted, Djokovic's forehead musculature perfectly fits the abyss, and he allows himself to become one with the continent.

And so he sacrifices himself for the good of the Earth. For the pleasures of Australia.

© The Fellowship of Broken Men


End file.
